Of Beer and Blue Jeans
by Jo. R
Summary: He hates these things.


Title: Of Beer and Blue Jeans.  
Author: Jo. R  
Rating: 13+  
Spoilers: Speculation for Season Nine.  
Category: Sam/Jack  
Summary: He really hates these things.  
Archive: Random Ramblings, SJA, SJfic, Helio, GateWorld.  
Disclaimer: They're not mine. Stargate SG-1 and its characters belong to the usual PTB suspects: SciFi, MGM, Gekko Productions et al.  
Authors Notes: Yeah. Don't ask me where this came from. I don't know. There's a reason it's saved on my hard drive as 'weirdthing.doc'.

Thank you, Fairygnomes.

* * *

He hates these things.

Hates the way the people around him ooze charm and feign interest, hates the way he has to join in. Hates the way his jaw aches and cheeks hurt at the end of the evening because of the fake smile on his face. Hates the pain in his knuckles from where his fist has clenched on his glass more than once throughout a stilted conversation he wants nothing to do with.

He really, really hates these things.

The men in their suits, the soldiers in their dress blues.

The women at these things have no choice, he knows. They have to wear the sparkly dresses and stiletto heels and false smiles to hide the pain in their feet.

He wants a beer, damn it. Not the flute of champagne in his hand.

He wants a slice of pizza or a burger or the remains of the Chinese he ordered the night before. Not the bits and pieces spread out over the buffet table as delicate snacks.

No one ever touches them. They stand by the table and mingle, make a show of piling the snacks on their paper plates but he's yet to see anyone actually eat.

He wonders if they're all as miserable as he is but then someone laughs, a genuine laugh, and it shatters the fantasy that he's not alone.

He hates these things.

He hates this city, hates these people.

Hates the smile that automatically curves his mouth as he nods in acknowledgement of the couple passing him.

He should know their names.

He doesn't.

He recognises just a handful of the people swarming in and out and around the room and knows he's not doing his job by swarming in and around them but he doesn't care.

Socialising with these people is not part of his job description.

Pretending he gives a fuck about what they're saying isn't part of his job description.

He doesn't want to be here. He would rather be on the frontlines of a battle with the Jaffa, with gunfire and staff weapons discharging around him. Smelling blood and sweat and dirt and fear instead of fancy perfumes and aftershaves that make his head spin.

Parties were never his thing. Especially not ones he was ordered to attend.

Damn it, he was a General. Didn't that mean anything?

General Hammond passed him, a smile that could've been genuine on his face as the nameless woman on his arm whisked him onto the dance floor.

Obviously titles don't mean a thing.

His eye is caught by a brunette on the opposite side of the room. She's been eyeing him up all night, he knows. He's watched her watching him, wondering at the General hiding in the shadows.

At the man doing his best to become part of the furnishings.

He isn't interested.

The uniform, the rank, the greedy look in her eye. He could end the night in her bed without even trying but he just isn't interested.

He hates these things.

Hates feeling like he's on parade, like he's on display for the masses.

Agent Kerry Johnson passes with Major Davis but neither of them notice him. They're too focused on each other, their conversation obviously proving more interesting than anyone else in the room.

'Good,' he thinks. He's happy for her. At least with Davis she'll get the attention she deserves.

At least with Davis she won't be stuck with a date wishing he was somewhere else all night.

Wishing he was back in Colorado Springs, in the pit of a mountain tied to a desk he'd thought he loathed.

He hates DC.

It's nights like this, when his excuses have fallen on deaf ears and he's ordered to attend these events that he really wonders why he took the reassignment.

Why he agreed to leave his comfortable chair at the SGC for one that isn't as comfortable and isn't as lived in behind a desk at the Pentagon three days of every week.

Why he agreed to leave his house, his friends.

Why he agreed to move further away from his cabin and his lake – and the fish that had somehow appeared in it.

He hears shuffling behind him and stifles a groan.

'Not another one,' he thinks.

Not another woman who thinks his uniform, his rank, actually stands for something. Not another woman who wants to offer him the chance to stand on her toes and maybe, just maybe, share her hotel room.

It's flattering, really. But it's not him.

Not anymore.

His days of accepting those invitations ended when he woke up beside a woman who wasn't his wife years ago and realised he risked losing everything he and Sara and Charlie had.

His eyes close for a split second at the cleared voice beside him and he again wishes to be anywhere else.

'Thor, old buddy, if you're up there..'

He opens his eyes as he turns around, his mouth already open to politely turn her down.

His mouth closes. His eyes widened.

The woman in front of him is wearing old blue jeans, a crumpled shirt, a leather jacket and a smile he thought he'd only see in his dreams three nights of every week.

She looks as out of place in the big fancy ballroom as he's felt all night but suddenly he doesn't feel the need to run away.

He doesn't hate these things as much as he did five minutes before.

Her smile is sheepish, her face flushed. Her eyes dart nervously over his shoulder to the nameless people flittering around in the centre of the room.

"Want to go get a beer?"

The smile on his face is automatic but he decides he doesn't mind the aching in his jaw this time. "Thought you'd never ask."

She nods, the smile on her face more confident at his answer and turns to lead him out of the room.

He glances back over his shoulder at the threshold of the room, sees half a dozen people look away and immediately start or rejoin conversations of their own.

He looks back at the brunette at the other side of the room only to find she's turned her attentions to someone else.

Someone who isn't leaving with the blond in blue jeans.

"Carter," he says, leaning in unnecessary close as his hand finds its way to her back. "I don't know how you got here or why you did but thank you."

"You're welcome, Sir. Jack." She corrects herself when he raises an eyebrow in reminder. "Sorry. I would've been here sooner but my flight was late."

"You were invited to this thing?" His eyebrows shoot up and he glances back at the ballroom they're quickly walking away from.

Her answering chuckle distracts him from realising they're not heading out of the entrance but towards the elevators instead. "I've been invited to lots of things like this."

"Do you turn up at them all in jeans?"

"No." She threw a quick, sunny smile in his direction and pressed the button calling the elevator. "I usually don't turn up at all."

"Oh." His mind is busy processing the thought that she could have saved him from more of these things and it's not until she's ushered him inside the elevator carriage and they're almost at floor 5 that he realises they're not heading to the bar anymore. "Carter?"

"Yes?"

"Where are we going?"

"You said you wanted a beer."

"Uh-huh."

The elevator doors opened and she stepped out in front of him, quirking an eyebrow when he hesitated. "There's a mini bar in my room."

He grins again. His cheeks hurt, his jaw aches and he just doesn't care.

Maybe, he thinks as he gets out of the elevator and follows her down the hall, maybe he doesn't hate these things as much as he thought.

* * *

Fini 


End file.
